


Consanesco

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [19]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Food, Frenemies, Friendship, Healing, M/M, Super Soldier Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 08:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17383010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: James feels the smile slide of his face.It was easy, when he was frightened and shocked and self-righteous about sitting by his injured boyfriend’s bedside, to feel justified about the way he’d spoken to Natasha Romanov. It was easy to answer back and be snide, easy to let his mood carry him because he wouldn’t have had the energy otherwise.Now, he’s looking at his boyfriend and trying to figure out how to tell him he shouted at one of his best friends. And, worse, he’s looking at an Avenger and trying to figure out how to tell him he shouted at an internationally revered undercover specialist.





	1. Chapter 1

James passes his finger along the bottom of the page he’s reading, and his tablet shows him the next one. He’s finished his ghost stories, reread his Lovecraft collection, caught up on his Ethan/Krisis fanfiction and moved onto his neuroscience. He’s reading about how the understanding of neurology and impulse might be about to bring a massive change into legal processes when Steve - who is lying stretched out on the bed, near enough face-down in James’ stomach, with his arms wrapped around James - shifts a little. James is propped up against the headboard, the bottom of his tablet resting against the bed, and Steve hugs him at about waist level, because that’s where he was when he went to sleep.

It’s been three weeks since Steve was shot, and he’s spent most of his time exactly like this, wrapped up in soft clothes either with the air-con up-high while his body’s going through bouts of healing, or the heating up when he drops back into sleep and his body temperature falls again. Most of the time he’s been asleep, he’s been asleep next to (or on top of) James, a carousel of feed me/fuck me/ _zzzz_ , of which James indulges only the latter. With one hand on his tablet and the other arm around Steve’s shoulders, James smiles as Steve turns his head a little, sighs.

“Still awake?” he murmurs.

“Hmmmmmh,” Steve answers, “duhbuh-duhbuh.”

It takes James a second to parse the word ‘debatable,’ and then he smiles, closes his eyes for a moment. 

“You need anything?”

“Nhhhh.”

“Okay.”

Most of their conversations over the past week or so have gone like this. James has been pulling his hours in wherever he can get them - he’ll work them off later, Tony, Mr Stark, who keeps insisting James call him Tony, Tony knows about it, has approved it. 

_As long as the work gets done,_ he’d said, _we don’t really put a limit on when. And I have a lab I’m usually in around four a.m. if you need advice._

It’s true, actually - not just the lab thing but the fact that SI doesn’t mind. James has never looked into night shifts before, but he might once Steve’s a little better, get a little more time at his desk when Steve’s better at swinging a good night’s sleep, ‘cause he knows some people do it. In a building with security as high as theirs, you can’t get in unless you’re authorized anyway, so why keep people out at night?

He gets a ping on his notifications a moment later, and has a look to find that it’s from Connor. He opens the email, thinking it’s maybe a call for a meeting on Monday or whatever and, instead, he finds that Connor’s telling him-

“Oh wow,” he says, feels himself grin. 

“Uhh?” Steve asks, and James rubs his back again.

“Cady’s pregnant!” he says. “My manager Connor’s girlfriend!”

“Mmh!” Steve answers, coming awake a little bit. “Mgradulayshen!”

“I know!” James says. “I’ll tell him.” And then he pauses. “From both of us?” 

The noise Steve makes then is low, gentle, but pleased. James smiles. 

“ ‘Congratulations! From me and Steve, winky-face. Send us your amazon baby wishlists ex ex.’ Yeah?”

Steve stirs a little more, seems to pull himself together some.

“Mmyeah,” he says, lifting his head to turn it slightly, withdrawing his arms a little. “Wh’ver he wants.”

James beams down at the top of Steve’s head, lifts his free hand and cards his fingers through Steve’s fluffy hair. 

“Send,” he says, as he presses the button, and Steve rolls just a little way back, so he’s on his side rather than his stomach.

He squints in the direction of the windows.

“Time issit?” he asks, and James glances at the corner of his screen.

“Three forty-five,” he says. “You slept through lunch.”

Steve snorts, and rolls back.

“Gonna sleep through dinner, too,” he says.

He does.

***

“Beef,” Steve says. “A burger. Two burgers. Three burgers?”

James hears his stomach growl.

“No solid food yet,” James says. “You can have some nutes-”

“I don’t want nutrients, what I want is _meat,_ ” Steve answers, and James turns to look at him where he’s slouched in the corner of the couch. _“Bloody.”_

“Well, talk to Gari about it,” he says. 

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Gari ain’t my keeper, neither’re you,” he sits forward, “I’m orderin’ out.”

“Not via Jarvis you ain’t,” James says. “I asked him about it, he says you ain’t authorized to order through ‘im until medical clears you, your phone is all the way in the bedroom so I’d get to it before you’d get to it, and I know you ain’t dumb enough to threaten my person over fuckin’ Maccy D’s, so sit tight and I’ll finish mixin’ your damn milkshake.”

Steve heaves a very heavy sigh though his nose, head down, glaring at James from under his eyebrows.

“Fuckin’ broth and pills,” he mutters. 

“Oh yeah, I know,” James tells him. “Remember that whole eatin’ in solidarity thing?”

Steve seems to ease up, nods, looks away. Then he holds out a hand and gestures for James to come over. 

James glances at the milkshake and then decides that comfort for Steve is a priority, and he crosses to Steve, takes Steve’s hand, lets Steve reel him in until he’s standing between Steve’s legs. He stands like that, Steve’s arms around his waist, Steve’s chin against his stomach so he can look up into James’ eyes. 

“You know, you don’t have to do all this,” Steve says, voice soft, face open. “You can eat whatever you’d like, it wouldn’t upset me.”

James doesn’t know what it is about him - maybe it’s that his eyes are wide when Steve usually looks at James with a more half-lidded affection, maybe it’s that, for whatever reason, what Steve just said sounds like an odd turn of phrase. Whatever it is, James…

James doesn’t believe him.

“Huh?” he says, and Steve sits back a little to look at him better, smiles.

It’s not the way he usually smiles. Not to mention, where’s all the Brooklyn gone out of his voice? He hasn’t pronounced shit this clearly for weeks.

“If you don’t want to eat broth with me, you don’t have to,” Steve says. “I appreciate the solidarity but it’s-”

“Steve, I’m doing it ‘cause I want to,” he says.

For a second, there’s a flicker of something - frustration maybe? And then he’s smiling again.

“I won’t mind,” he says. “You can-”

And then James gets it - he reads about behavioirsm for a hobby for God’s sake.

“Steve,” he says, very slowly, and very carefully, “I love you. You love me, right?”

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Remember that, okay,” he says. “Because the answer’s no.”

“Aw honey-” he says.

“Because, if I’ve got it, you can steal it,” James says. “Right? Or at least ask for it. It’d be a lot harder to turn you down if it’s right there, and you’re makin’ the puppydog eyes. Yeah?”

The genial expression drops off Steve’s face like a stone. For a second, there’s what looks like genuine irritation - narrowed eyes, jaw locked, brow furrowing hard, but then, _then_ -

“I’m sorry,” he says, his whole face changing again - this time his eyes go wide and his eyebrows go up and his mouth drops open - surprise. He lets go of James and pulls back, closes his eyes and there, _there’s_ Steve. “Yeah, that was the plan.” He runs his hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”

He does that thing again, where he seems small, hunching over, and James reaches out for _him_ this time.

“Sneaky,” James says, and Steve scoffs.

“Sorry,” he says, and he won’t look up, so James tucks his hand under Steve’s chin and lifts. 

“No burgers for you,” he says.

“I mean it’s really hard to be appreciative,” Steve answers. “Can I say thank you now and mean it later?”

James smiles a little, leans down and presses his mouth to Steve’s forehead. Steve leans into it, looks pained when James pulls back, and James can see his Steve sitting right there where some other guy was there just a few minutes ago.

“Sure,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, and James feels his mouth twitch. 

Yeah, that wasn’t genuine.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I’m gonna get your milkshake.”

“Mhm,” Steve says, and then he thumps back against the back of the couch. “People’ve always said I can’t lie for shit. Just as well, huh? I’m sorry.”

James shakes his head.

“You weren’t lyin’ - you meant it. Just…” he shrugs. “Not for the reason you said you did, that’s all. It ain’t you - it’s the serum, I know that. Sam said.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Steve says, and James picks the milkshake up, takes it over to him and sits down next to Steve once he’s taken it with a nod.

“Yeah,” James says. “Addict behavior. Because serum.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, nods slowly.

“Yeah, that’s true,” he says. “Fuck, ‘m sorry.”

James shrugs.

“I’d be worried if I thought you’d hurt me over it, but we’re talking rare burgers, not smack.”

Steve winces.

“Uh,” he says. “Actually…”

James frowns.

“What?” he says. “ _Are_ we talking smack!?”

“No,” Steve laughs, sets a hand on James’ knee. “No, sorry. No, we’re just…not talkin’ rare.”

James frowns, then considers this. Then doesn’t like the conclusion he comes to.

“You’re not talkin’ well done either, are you,” he says, not really a question. 

Steve shakes his head.

“No, I,” he says, and then sighs, “I…came back from an undercover op once and my…rations had been…off. I didn’t pack ‘em myself at that point and someone misread the instructions and, by the time I got back, well…” he waves a hand. “We radioed ahead that I needed red meat when I got back but they…insisted on a debrief first.”

James tuts, frowns.

“Yeah well. Somebody shows up, came in with a plate’a quarter-pounders halfway through and asked if they ought’a cook ‘em all up, and I said yeah and then…I’m told I asked for a bathroom break - I don’t even remember walkin’ to the kitchen but…somebody says ‘Jesus Christ’ and suddenly I’m…” he laughs, shakes his head. “I’m standin’ in the kitchen with half a plate’a raw quarter-pounders on the counter, mouth full, hands a mess, and half my team standin’ there lookin’…kinda like you look right now, actually.”

James can feel the horrified expression on his face but can’t seem to do anything about it.

“Oh wow,” he says.

“Worst part is they had to wrestle ‘em off me,” Steve grins. “Even once I knew what I was doin’.”

“Yeah,” James says. “Definitely not relying on your self-restraint.”

“What self-restraint,” he says.

***

Monday, he’s handsy as fuck as soon as James walks in. Well, as soon as James sits down, anyway - Steve’s on the couch with a book in-hand and a TV show going, both about criminal psychology. He ignores both as soon as James walks in.

“Hi!” he beams, elongating the vowel like he’s surprised James is home.

“Hey,” James says, pleased Steve’s smiling and has been keeping busy, and he’s taking his coat off when Steve says, 

“Nah, do that in a sec, c’mere.”

James does, goes over to him and kisses him hello. He means to make it a short, chaste little thing on Steve’s lips, but Steve opens his mouth and groans softly, one hand wound in James’ shirt and the other on the back of his head, big fingers sinking into James’ hair. He pulls James a little closer and James has to put one hand down on the arm on the couch, panics internally as he puts his other hand on Steve’s shoulder but then remembers it’s the other one that’s injured. Steve pulls a little _more_ ,

“Whoa, whoa,” James says against his mouth, but he can feel Steve smiling.

“What, sugar, you didn’t miss me?” Steve murmurs back, and then his tongue is in James’ mouth and James really did miss kissing him.

Steve’s hand moves, slips downward, squeezes the front of his jeans and-

“Wait, no, stop,” James says, and it hurts something in his chest to see the way Steve’s smile fades as James pulls back.

“What?” he says, and he sounds so bereft.

“Gari said no funny stuff,” James tells him. “I don’t even know if I can blow you yet, let alone-”

“Sweetheart,” Steve says, smiling as he holds his hands out either side of him, “I can’t even get it up yet, don’t worry about me, serum’ll do it when it’s ready.” He leans forward. “But _I_ can blow _you-”_

James really does pull away then.

“No,” he says. “I saw your scans and I heard your doctors. You can’t - literally you can’t yet. You can’t even stay upright on a good chair for a whole meal.”

Steve’s eyes narrow and, for a second, James thinks he’s blown it. Figuratively. 

“You drive a hard bargain, J.B,” he says. 

There’s a joke in there somewhere about hard and the letter B and the letter J, but James doesn’t make it. He just puts his hands on his hips.

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says. “What are we doing for dinner?”

James raises an eyebrow, stands up straight and takes his jacket off.

“Three guesses,” James says, because they both know it’s gonna be soup.

***

Steve actually doesn’t sleep through a good portion of his meals now. He takes his nutes, and he eats his broths and his light stews, which he graduated to this week, and he’s awake at least half the time now. Still, it’s nice to be like this, James thinks.

Steve’s head and shoulders are in his lap, along with a bunch of throw pillows to make James’ lap a little less bony and a little more backrest-like, and he’s definitely sleeping this time. James is watching ‘ ~~super~~ **human** ’ again, with the sound off and the captions on, and Steve is just breathing quietly there, head turned towards James’ stomach, warming James’ skin through his shirt with slow, even breaths. 

He’s back in his hoodie - which he’s only taken off for it to be laundered, really. And he complained about his beard this morning, so James came back up from work at lunch to shave it for him, as he’s been doing regularly since Steve came back to the apartment. As usual, James trimmed it with the clippers first, lathered Steve’s face with the shaving foam, and set about it with about as much caution as he possibly could. He was still nervous, sure, but his hands stayed fairly steady - he missed a small patch by Steve’s left cheekbone, but that’s better than cutting him considering James hadn’t ever shaved a guy’s face for him before like a week ago. Plus, Steve can just pass it off as an unruly sideburn if he really wants. 

It’s also probably an indulgence of James’ personal fantasies - Steve’s doing a lot better at lifting his arm, doing a lot better at shuffling from place to place. He could probably have shaved himself at least this last time, maybe, but he didn’t - he let James do it instead. His stubble’s already growing back, and James strokes the backs of his fingers down with the grain of the new growth over Steve’s jaw. 

Steve doesn’t stir.

***

On Tuesday, Steve is finally approved for some solid food - but it’s got to be fatty, preferably with a sauce for moisture. So, that evening, halfway through James making his specialty meatballs (a dish which Steve requested, aw yeah, score one for Jabooby), the doorbell rings. James looks over his shoulder, frowns, and then sees that Steve’s starting to struggle to his feet.

“No!” he says. “I’ll get it!”

“Kid,” Steve tuts, exasperated, but James gets the lid on the pot and hurries to the door. 

“No, you let Sam in this afternoon while I was out-”

“Jarvis let Sam in.”

“-it’s my turn. Who is it, Jarvis?”

Steve rolls his eyes but settles back down into his sprawl on the couch as Jarvis answers.

 _“Nurse Bianchi,”_ he says, _“for the Commander’s scheduled check-up.”_

James yanks the door open and smiles.

“Hi!” he says.

 _“Ciao,”_ Gari grins. “How are you both?”

 _“Sto bene, grazie,”_ Steve rasps from the couch. _“Sempre migliorando.”_

James looks back over his shoulder at Steve, feeling his forehead crease, but he steps back to let Gari in.

“I’m making dinner,” James says. “Would you like to stay?”

Then he realizes he’s just invited Steve’s nurse into Steve’s apartment to eat Steve’s food and, for a second, thinks he might have overstepped.

“Ah, oh, nono, I don’t want to intrude-”

“It ain’t intrudin’ if we ask, Gari, you stayin’ for meatballs?” Steve says, and James feels his chest loosen a little in relief.

“Oh, meatballs?” Gari asks, and James feels his eyes go wide again.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, trying to preempt whatever expectations Gari has. “More Swedish style than Italian, though.”

Gari chuckles, and James shuts the door behind him. 

“That’s perfect,” he says. “I only eat my grandmother’s Italian meatballs.”

Steve snorts.

 _“Faremmo tutti la…stessa cosa, se potessimo,”_ he says, and James comes and sits down next to him as Gari takes a seat.

He’s out of breath already, and he didn’t even make it onto his feet. James rubs Steve’s knee in commiseration. 

“Can I help you with dinner at all, James?” Gari asks, and James smiles a little, shakes his head.

“It’s good,” he says. “The rice is cooked already so it’s just warming, we just gotta wait for the rest to finish cookin’, maybe fifteen minutes?”

Gari’s eyebrows go up.

 _"Riso, ah?”_ he says. _“Una scelta insolita.”_

And, although he doesn’t look upset in the slightest, James knows enough Spanish to know a little Italian, and enough Italian to know Gari’s questioning the rice.

 _“Mi fido di lui,”_ Steve answers, wiggling his fingers in James’ direction, and James can’t help it, hopes he doesn’t sound as frustrated as he feels but isn’t willing to hold back any longer.

“Sorry,” he says, and they both look at him, “but could you maybe speak in English? I-I don’t speak Italian and this is starting to feel like the Black Widow all over again.”

“Of course,” Gari says, looking halfway between apologetic and mortified, “oh, my goodness!” just as Steve says,

“Black Widow?” 

“I’m so sorry,” Gari continues, as Steve reaches out and tugs James’ sleeve as he leans in, not-quite pulling James toward him but enough of a signal that James sways in his direction anyway. “You spoke to me in Italian last week and I misunderstood, my apologies.”

While he’s speaking, Steve presses a kiss to James’ cheek.

“ ‘M sorry honey,” he says, but then, “what about the Black Widow? I didn’t…know you’d met Nat.”

James turns his head and stares at him for a second or three.

“You know when you woke up in the recovery room?” he says.

“Yeah?” Steve nods.

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

Steve frowns.

“I remember thinking I was…in Bel- home or, Brooklyn or something, way back, thought…someone was manhandling me, but then I was upstairs with you, remember? I wanted to eat.”

James looks at Gari, who raises his eyebrows and averts his gaze.

“Ah,” he says. 

“What?” Steve asks, looking between them. “What’s-” and then he kind of deflates, at the same time his eyebrows sink. “What’d I do?” 

“Not you,” James says and then, when Steve turns to him and looks ready to object, “it wasn’t you! I’ll tell you about it later. Okay? I promise.”

Steve looks supremely unimpressed, but he nods slowly.

“Alright,” he says, and then carefully clears his throat. “If you promise.”

“I already promised!” James says, and Steve visibly considers this, and then nods, leans back in to kiss James’ cheek again. 

“Fine,” he says. 

Gari is smiling at the two of them, and James feels himself go a little pink. Steve doesn’t appear concerned, and glances at the kitchen.

“You want to take a look at me before dinner and put yourself off eating?” he says.

Gari chuckles, stands up and tugs his jacket off his shoulder.

“Of course,” he says. “You can just lift your shirt for me?”

James stands up as Steve sits back - he can get to setting the table while Gari makes sure all of Steve’s new wounds become old memories.

~

Dinner is a success (which, if James is being honest, is no surprise - he makes this particular brand of food because it’s easy to throw together and tastes amazing, and because it can be made with bacon and double cream for those parties who might require extra calories). They eat on the couches, around the coffee table, because it’s easier on Steve’s hip to be on cushioned seating.

Gari doesn’t stay for long afterward - he’s got a cat to get home to, of whom the pictures are adorable - but he thanks Steve and James for a lovely dinner (which is very kind of him), confirms that Steve needs to hold off on strenuous physical activity (much to Steve’s chagrin) and then leaves for the day. He usually only needs to come in on days when one of his patients has check-ups, but today there was a minor injury on the on-duty team (and James will never mention the fact that, apparently, one of the Avengers closed the door of an armored car on the finger of another Avenger) so Gari happened to be upstairs today before he came down to see Steve.

As soon as James bids Gari goodbye however, the elevator doors closing behind him, he shuts Steve’s front door, turns around and,

“So the Black Widow,” Steve says. “What happened?”

James feels the smile slide of his face. 

It was easy, when he was frightened and shocked and self-righteous about sitting by his injured boyfriend’s bedside, to feel justified about the way he’d spoken to Natasha Romanov. It was easy to answer back and be snide, easy to let his mood carry him because he wouldn’t have had the energy otherwise.

Now, he’s looking at his boyfriend and trying to figure out how to tell him he shouted at one of his best friends. And, worse, he’s looking at an Avenger and trying to figure out how to tell him he shouted at an internationally revered undercover specialist. 

“Uh,” he says. “Okay so…Uh, so Jarvis told me you’d been shot and then I went upstairs and I was locked out. And then when Sam let me in - I didn’t know it was Sam - but when he let me in, I was running, and I like burst in and she was- like, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have burst in but I was like, I burst in, and she turned around like who the fuck is this-”

“What?” 

“-and then I got mad, I got mad. Like, I said, uh, I said ‘who the fuck are you’ and then Sam like stopped me-”

“What the hell.”

“-doing anything else and then it was okay but she came to visit you. And I was, we were, we were all worried and she was worried about Hawkeye too, Sam says she was worried about Hawkeye, but she kept talking to Sam instead of me, and then I was like ‘I’m over here’ and then she was like speaking in different languages so I couldn’t understand-”

“James-”

“-and then you said ‘shut up or get out’ and then you wanted her to talk in…English. I can’t remember which bit came first but yeah. She, we didn’t, I was. We. Fell out.”

Steve looks like the room is too bright for him, looks like he’s confused and mildly annoyed, and then he tilts his head and sits forward.

“Okay, so,” he says, “run this all by me again, but this time tell me what happened. I don’t need you to justify it or apologize for it, or anything. Just tell me what happened and what was said.”

So James tries, he really does. He tries to be impartial about it, tries to tell Steve what happened when, tries to explain that he didn’t mean it and he understands that they were all stressed, tries to let Steve know that it’s not the end of the world but, when he finishes, Steve has gone very quiet, his expression strangely tired. 

He’s staring in the vicinity of James’ kneecaps, his eyes half closed, his brow a little furrowed, and James recognizes the expression - it’s that rueful smile, without the smile.

“That’s disappointing,” he says softly and, before James has chance to worry about it, he draws a deep breath and looks at James properly. “I’ll speak to her.”

James feels hot and cold all at once.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “It’s okay, I understand we were-”

“No offense to you, James,” Steve says, “but she knows better. And okay…” he nods a little, winces, “it wasn’t tactful of either of you, but you were both scared, both upset. She seems to have forgotten that, but she’s been through it before and she ought’a know better. I mean, for starters, she’s _trained_ better.”

“Steve,” James says, because the last thing he wants is to cause a confrontation, but Steve takes his hand.

“No, listen,” he says. “I know you’re embarrassed and, I’ll be honest, she’s probably embarrassed, too. I asked her, before I started dating you even, not to run checks on you. So obviously she didn’t or she’d’ve known who you were but…She and I, and Tony in a lot of ways, we’re like dogs with bones when it comes to this. She felt embarrassed you caught her off guard, so she acted like you did it on purpose even when she realized you didn’t. I’ve seen Tony do it, I know I’ve done it. I’m just sad that she’s still doing it, but that’s defense mechanisms for you, I guess.”

James chews his lower lip.

“Either way,” Steve says, and he brightens a little, “it wasn’t right of her to say what she said, or deliberately exclude you, and I’m gonna talk to her ‘cause I ain’t talked to her in like three weeks, she’s probably avoiding us. And then I’m gonna try and make it so you two can start over. I care very much about the both of you but I will not be made to choose. Do you understand that?”

James nods quickly.

“And by that I mean,” Steve clarifies, “if anyone tries to make me choose between them and you, the choice is clear. You’d never ask me to favor you over my friends-”

“No!”

“-and I expect the same courtesy of my friends. Come here.”

James does, moves along the couch until he’s next to Steve, until he can duck under Steve’s good arm and Steve can squeeze him around his shoulders. He _must_ feeling better, that’s for sure.

“Now,” Steve says, “I’m not really mad at anyone, especially you, so don’t fret about it any more. Okay?”

James nods, settles his hand on Steve’s thigh because he’s still worried about Steve’s hip and stomach.

“Yeah,” he says. “You want hot chocolate?”

There’s a long pause, and then he lifts his hand. James frowns down at it, unsure, and then takes it after a moment, confused.

“Hi, I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve says, “we must not have met.”

James snorts and pushes himself up from the couch.

“Asshole,” he snickers.

“I thought Sam already told you that’s what the ‘A’ really stands for.”

~

Later, they’re lying in bed together, Steve nestled in and James reading again, when James becomes aware that some of the shapes have changed in his periphery. He turns his head and finds that Steve is staring at him, very intently, where he was lying inert before. Not asleep, but not moving - whereas now he looks…restless.

“What?” James says.

“Can’t you just make out with me a little?” he says.

“Steve,” James begins, but Steve holds up his good hand.

“No, okay, listen, though,” he says. “Nothing strenuous. I _can’t_ do anything strenuous ‘cause the serum’s still…diverting energy away from everything fun. Just kissing. Okay?”

James frowns, puts his tablet down.

“I dunno.”

“Please, honey, I just…” Steve visibly struggles with the next part “…want a little contact, just your hands on me a little. No?”

And that seems…a little better of a compromise. Right? That’s fair of him, after all - ages ago, when he talked about his ex, and a lot of times since then, he’s talked about how nice it is to live with someone close to you, how lonely things can be when you don’t have that. And James has been cuddling and coddling, but Steve’s been asleep for a lot of that, plus he’s sick.

“This a ruse?” James asks, and Steve pauses.

“A _ruse?_ ” he parrots. “What the hell are we, Shakespeare?” And James considers calling him out for avoiding the question, but then Steve shakes his head, answers a moment later. “I’m…” he starts over “I’m not tryin’ to trick you, I’m not gonna grab you and fuck you when you least expect it, honey, I just…” he looks uncomfortable, and James already wants to reach out to him. “I miss your hands on the bits of me that ain’t broke, and I miss kissin’. You don’t gotta say yes, but we ain’t gonna do nothin’ strenuous, so I’d like very much if you did.”

James chews his lip a second, and he watches Steve’s eyes follow the movement. Steve’s voice is still rough but his eyes are clear, and he’s jigging his foot under the quilt, James can feel it through the mattress and see it out of the corner of his eye.

“You lie back,” James tells him. “Hands above the belt.”

“Can’t I, y’know. Get a little grabby?” he says, and he does genuinely look disappointed about it.

James narrows his eyes.

“You lie back, you can grab my ass but _nothing else_ below the waist. Just kissing.”

“Just…okay, just kissin’,” Steve nods, seems to get more anxious with each passing second. “Just kissin’ kid, c’mere and kiss’ me, ‘uh?”

James turns the lamp on his own nightstand off and then scoots down a little so Steve doesn’t end up making out with his stomach, and then he very carefully braces himself on one arm so that he’s not putting his weight on Steve. Steve smiles, a soft, gentle little thing, and lifts his chin as James lowers his head, opens his mouth as James kisses him, and then James can almost feel the relief rolling off him.

“Mh, thank you,” Steve says between kisses, turns his head and moans softly, hand at the small of James’ back and then the swell of his ass and then the top of his thigh - more holding on than grabbing at. 

And James feels like a dick immediately.

“Sorry,” he says, because he is - kissing is kissing, cuddling is cuddling, and didn’t Steve _just_ say the other day that people found him hard to cuddle? And here James is withholding basic physical affection, here Steve is _thanking_ for a couple of kisses.

“S’ok,” he says, words mumbled against James’ lips. “Y’r tryin’ t’help.”

“But ‘m sry,” James answers.

Steve shakes his head minutely, opens his mouth a little more and there it is again - James can feel him smile.

“I love,” James says, Steve doesn’t let him get away to say any more.

He says,

“Mm- _hmmm_ ,” instead, in an inflection that’s unmistakable, even when it’s moaned directly into James’ mouth.

_Me too._


	2. Chapter 2

On Wednesday, James wakes up because he’s too hot under the covers in an apartment that’s too hot for him in general at the moment, and he turns onto his back, and then looks at the empty place where Steve should be.

There’s blood on the sheet.

James is upright in an instant, horrified, and then his gaze snaps up and-

“Don’t,” Steve’s voice says, from the bathroom, where the door is open, “don’t worry, I just caught a scab, I’m fine.”

James is halfway out of the bed, covers flipped back, and Steve gradually appears in the doorway. He’s limping now more than shuffling, which he’s been doing since yesterday morning, and he has his hand pressed to his stomach when he comes into view. Under his hand is a paper towel with slightly pinkish spots, and Steve leans on the doorway - on his left shoulder to avoid the injuries on his right - and sighs.

“Sorry,” he rasps - his voice is still rough, breathing still labored. “I rolled over this morning and caught it, and I thought I should press it back down before it healed weird.”

“What,” James says, getting his breath back. “Heals weird? What.”

“Caught the edge,” Steve says, and then he takes a few steps forward. “Which is good, means it’s lifting. But that bit was stickin’ up so I thought I’d, y’know. Stick it back down.”

“It’ll _do_ that?” James asks, and Steve lowers himself gingerly onto the bed next to James’ feet.

“In about three minutes, yeah,” Steve nods. “Bad news though, if the scabs are…startin’ to lift, I can’t wear too many clothes. I’ll have to wander around in open shirts and-” he draws a pained breath, but it’s no worse than any of his others, and he’s definitely improving “-flowing silk bathrobes.”

“A tragedy,” James says. “I’m devastated.” He looks at Steve’s torso, and the two palm-sized dark scabs on his chest and stomach with the ever-present dog tags like a dividing line down the middle of his chest, glances down at Steve’s lap and raises his eyebrows. “How’s your second in command?” 

Steve blinks, eyebrows trying to climb into his hairline.

“Where do you get these?” he says, but then he shakes his head. “No word, I’m afraid - still asleep on duty. Although if you _want,_ ” and he reaches forward, slides his hand up James’ leg over the quilt, “I might be able to take care of your-”

James frowns.

“No,” he says. “You got shot right across, which means you ain’t got a side that’s stronger. I can wait just as long as you can.”

“It ain’t waitin’, waitin’ implies a choice,” Steve says, faking irritation. “I get two months off but I…only get to spend one of ‘em nailin’ you, you think that’s a vacation I’d pick?”

James laughs, leans a little closer. 

“You’re sure it’s all okay?” he says. “Not your dick, your-” still need to take a breath, James “-bullet wounds.”

“There’s some stuff still doin’ on the inside, I can feel it. It’s hard to describe but it’s…” he looks down. “It’s gettin’ there.” He looks up again. “And then I got _plans_ for month two.”

James laughs again.

“I bet you do,” he says. “Why d’you think I’m spendin’ so much time sittin’ down? Gotta get it while I can.”

Steve screws up his face but laughs as well.

Then he looks down and, gingerly, peels his hand and the paper towel away from his stomach. There’s blood on the paper, speckles of crimson on the pristine off-white, and a small smear of it against the skin of his abs near to the top of the scab but, apart from that, James sees no lifting.

“There you go,” Steve says. “Healed back down, should be ready to lift again tomorrow. I just gotta be careful of the rest of it.”

“So you’ll be in sexy open shirts from here until they come off, right?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. 

He tucks some of James’ hair behind his ear, then leans forward and kisses him. _No, James hasn’t brushed his teeth!_

“No, ew, sorry,” he says, “me ew, not you ew, I didn’t brush my teeth-”

Steve laughs, heaves himself onto his feet with a groan. 

“I don’t care if you…brushed your teeth,” he says. “And it’s eight-fifteen, sweetheart, you ought’a get up or…you won’t have time for breakfast.”

~

By lunch, Steve is doing exactly what he said he would. James comes upstairs to find that Steve is making food at the stove, wearing low-riding jeans for the first time since he got home, though his feet are bare, with a shirt that hangs loose. Even from behind, James can tell it’s open. 

“Hi,” Steve says, glances back over his bad shoulder to look at James. “Italian sausage and veg?”

James dumps his bag by the door. Steve’s got a chair close to him for when he needs to sit down, and he’s using his left arm to stir, and he’s standing a little hunched over still - but he’s on his feet, and that’s more than James was expecting to come home to.

“Yeah?” he says. “Lemme get an eyeful first.”

Steve gradually turns around, good hand on the edge of the counter.

Thing is, though, thing is, the scabs are big and dark but Steve’s got _abs_ , and there’s something that appeals to the part of James that still likes a little Indiana Jones marathon every now and again (although not the fourth one because ew) that’s interested by a hot guy in an open shirt with a couple of manly wounds in his body hair. Especially with the tags. 

“This is terrible,” James says. “You’re like my ultimate Male Action Protagonist fantasy right now.”

“Ahh, where the hero only shows his softer side behind closed doors,” Steve says, holding out a hand as though tracing the images in the air, “sustaining agonizing wounds that somehow only hurt,” he presses the back of his hand to his forehead, “when the beautiful previously-reluctant young charge tries to…dab at them with a handkerchief.”

James nods.

“Yep, that’s the one,” he says. “Adequate medical assistance according to Hollywood.”

“Good,” Steve tells him, dropping the act. “ ‘Cause I’m feelin’ better today, and…I thought maybe you could try and…I was gonna say ‘rouse the sentry’ but I…just decided I hate it even more than ‘second in command.’ ” 

James feels himself smile as he walks over, and then he he lightly slips his arms around Steve’s waist beneath the shirt. Wow, has the ever missed the feel of warm, smooth skin under his hands, missed the taper of such a slender waist under his palms and the well-defined ridges beneath his fingers. He settles his hands in the small of Steve’s back, over his belt so that his thumbs dip into the dimples at the base of Steve’s spine, but he only smiles briefly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Did Gari okay it?” 

Steve smiles a little, too. Then he realizes James is serious.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” James says. “The medical staff upstairs said low-level activity after like a month, and Gari literally said so your last checkup. So you’ve got, what, a week and a half left?”

“I mean, it’s a week and a half ‘til I can get on a treadmill…” Steve says, but he frowns when he sees James isn’t gonna budge. “Listen, we can talk about it tonight, anyway. Go sit down and you can help me when it’s done.”

James goes, removes his hands from Steve’s body - uhn, Steve’s _body_ \- and takes a seat on the couch. Again, he’d rather help than sit, but he gets the idea this is something Steve wants to do for himself. 

“I’m gonna call,” he says, and then kind of shifts a little, working out kinks in his shoulders probably, “Nat tonight, I’ll talk to her tomorrow while you’re at work. If everything goes well, she’ll also stay for dinner. If it don’t, she won’t.”

“If it do, yahoo,” James answers. 

Steve chuckles, puts the spatula down and turns around. 

He limps halfway across the kitchen and, all right, he’s the kind of guy who has an Irish complexion, and whose job requires him to wear a mask most of the time. Doesn’t mean his skin can’t pale, though, and James sees him waver, sees the color in his cheeks fade as his mouth opens - not much, just enough that it looks like a gasp.

“Steve?” James says, and Steve puts out a hand as his gaze slips downward, makes a grab for the nearest surface and has to try twice when he misses the first time.

“Ah,” he says, only quiet but pained enough, and James is on his feet and moving toward him when Steve’s body hunches forward. “ _Ah!_ ”

James holds his hands out, anxious to hold, to comfort, but not knowing where to touch. 

“What do I do?” he says, trying not to panic, and Steve shakes his head, fingers tightening on the edge of the table as he takes a breath and holds it, shakes his head again.

“Nothing, you,” Steve says, and then groans as his body hunches forward a little more, and he gasps, “ _can’tdoanythi-nguh- ow,”_ and tips his head back, and his eyes are closed and his teeth are bared, and James doesn’t know how to help!

“Steve!” James says, and Steve makes another noise, another one that’s louder, a third that’s louder still and comes through gritted teeth-

And then, quite abruptly, all the tension leaves him and he sags against the table, wobbles sideways and drops into the nearest chair. James still just stands next to him, hover hands extraordinaire, and searches Steve’s face and body with his eyes because he daren’t touch him. Steve sits sideways in the chair at the table, one arm on the table itself, the other on the back of the chair, and he sighs heavily as he leans back a little, head tilted up and his eyes gently closed. 

He doesn’t catch sight of James until he opens his eyes a few moments later and, then, he sits forward, spreads his legs and reaches out for James instead, gets both hands on James’ hips and pulls so that James totters a step or two until he’s right up against Steve.

“Sorry,” Steve says, and then he’s burying his face in James’ stomach, wrapping his arms around James’ waist. “’M sorry, kid.”

James sinks the fingers of one hand into Steve’s hair and cradles the back of his head as Steve’s breath warms his stomach through his shirt. He strokes down over Steve’s good shoulder with the other hand, rests it on his shoulder blade.

“What happened?” he murmurs, glad to have Steve here to hold, happy to have him stay like this for hours if he needs - fuck work, he’ll take that damned night shift and anyone who doesn’t like it can talk to his fucking boyfriend.

“Nerves come back like that,” Steve says. “Don’t hurt until they make a connection and then they hurt like the devil himself until they’re whole again.”

James strokes Steve’s head, tries to figure out what Steve’s just said, until it hits him.

“Your _nerves_ are growing back?” he says.

Steve pulls back enough to look up at him, squinting in the light difference.

“They kinda have to,” he says. “Yeah.”

James winces, searches Steve’s face.

“Christ,” he mutters. “It’s that bad every time?”

“They go end to end,” Steve says. “You know? Like two little pieces reaching out to each other. Apart, they’re fine. They do their own thing, regenerate, don’t transmit. Like a cut wire. But once they start to touch, they’re incomplete, if they’re incomplete, they think they’re damaged, and more and more fibers connect and say ‘ow’ in no uncertain terms, and then, voila, everything’s fixed and nothing hurts.”

James doesn’t quite suppress his shiver.

“That’s awful,” he says.

“Breaking my back was the worst one. When I finally got the feelin’ in my legs back, it felt like someone’d stood me in acid. But it only lasted three minutes. It’s that last little bit that’s the problem.”

James shakes his head.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Is there any other fucking terrible shit that happens to you so often you’re used to it that you wanna tell me about?”

There’s a pause. 

“I mean,” Steve says. “This is disgusting but, if I happen to lose a scab and you find it, don’t freak out. They come off in one usually, it’s meant to happen. Okay?”

James wrinkles his nose. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

“I can’t think of anything else right now though.”

James nods.

“Right.”

Steve wiggles his face against James’ stomach.

“I could just blow you?” he says. “That wouldn’t strain my stomach?”

James laughs, pushes at Steve’s head, and Steve sways backwards dramatically.

“I was promised mac and Italian sausage and veg,” James says. 

“Yeah, with bacon,” Steve tells him, and James looks down at Steve, at this big, huge, enormous, gorgeous guy with a heart that matches his size, who’s staring right back up at him with so much affection in his eyes that James feels he might melt.

“Man, I love you,” he says, and Steve laughs.

“All I had to do was mention bacon!” he says.

***

Steve has never met anyone for facing their fears head-on quite as effectively as Natasha does it.

She doesn’t even pretend to be confused about why he’s called, when he calls, and she doesn’t even act like she won’t show up to talk to him about it. 

When James goes to work the next morning, he calls her - she hates when he calls instead of texting, but he feels it’s important for her to hear his tone of voice so she doesn’t misunderstand (and he’s not dumb enough to video call, the last thing he needs is her reading his micro-expressions) - and asks her to drop by considering he’s not well enough to be wandering all ‘round the tower. She says,

 _“I was wondering when he’d tell on me,”_ in a tone of voice that suggests she doesn’t care (Steve knows her better), and Steve doesn’t pretend she’s wrong. _“I’ll come up in an hour.”_

“No,” Steve says. “Come up at four.”

And she doesn’t hesitate either.

 _“Whatever works for you,”_ she says, and hangs up.

It’s actually probably really simple, when you get right down to it - he’s betting, given the way James explained it, that she made a mistake when she was caught off-guard. And if there’s one thing Natasha hates more than anything, it’s making a mistake in front of people. Steve will concede, however, that the reason she made it is down to him - he asked her not to look James up, and she agreed, which she must have kept to, or she’d’ve known who he was. 

~

James comes back upstairs at lunch, and Steve thinks it’s sweet that he’s trying to uphold doctor’s orders but the thing is that Steve isn’t fragile. He _used_ to be fragile, but he’s really not now. And even when Sam’s voice in his head says _just ‘cause you heal don’t mean you should hurt,_ he dismisses it - he’s not pushing himself to train to get back off the bench, he’s not taking another bullet because it’d kill any other guy - he just wants a little lovin’, just a little bit of sweetness, he doesn’t need to break a bit off if he can just get a little necking.

He mentions this to James and James has no idea what he’s talking about.

“A neck in?” James says, brows drawn together in befuddlement, and Steve rolls his eyes and reels him in for kisses instead. “Oh, necking!”

And it’s nice, it’s so nice, James is so delicate about it - he’s treating Steve like glass, which Steve will tolerate this once because James had a hell of a scare, but it means his hands are gentle and the press of his body is sweet and his mouth is soft and Steve gets fingertips over the shells of his ears and hands in his hair and it’s so nice, it’s so _nice_ , but he wants more.

“Maybe tonight you can let me watch, huh? It’s been ages.”

James pulls back and looks at him, bright red.

“Watch?” he says. “You want to watch me?” 

Steve nods, bemused.

“Of course I want to watch you?” he says. “I’d like a lot more than that but I can’t get it up yet and you won’t let me do anything to you.”

“I,” James says, and frowns. “Do you want,” he tries again, and then he shakes his head. “Strenuous,” he decides on, “so like nothing strenuous but we can touch though?”

“How ‘bout pettin’, sweetheart? One’a my arms is pretty good, y’know.”

James doesn’t look sure.

“Look, I ain’t gonna force you,” Steve says. “You want I shouldn’t, then I won’t. But I’m okay for a little bit’a stuff, and I _want_ ,” he leans forward, “I _want_ stuff, yeah? I miss your skin and I miss that face you make, just show me a little if you’re good for it, I’m not gonna bite.”

James sucks his lower lip for a moment, and Steve smiles.

“Lemme get that for you,” he says. 

~

James has no real idea what he’s going to think of for the rest of the afternoon aside from the things Steve has suggested for this evening, and James wasn’t sure to start with but is a little more (totally) on board now.

Steve is improving, and it’s really kind of flattering how interested he is despite not being able to participate - of course James didn’t expect Steve’s libido to be non-existent, even if his ability to follow-through on it is impeded, but he’s definitely interested, and it’s definitely not a fleeting thing. It’s not the first time he’s suggested it, and he’s gotten more and more insistent every time and, to be perfectly honest, it’s harder to deny Steve every time he asks. It’s difficult enough to keep it to making-out when James has literally the hottest man alive (in his opinion obviously) underneath him, especially when that man is practically begging him to participate. 

This used to be James’ wildest fantasy but now, in one sense at least, it’s a nightmare. 

But Steve is healing. James knows how the serum works but seeing it, watching Steve improve day by day, seeing a man recover in quadruple time, is something amazing and wonderful and James knows hes privileged to see it. But his body’s wanting and doing different things and, when Steve says he wants to watch, he apparently means literally everything. Some of the stuff he murmured against James’ mouth during James’ freaking lunch hour would be enough to drive any man to calling in sick, but Steve’s plans for this evening include the Black freaking Widow, and James has to get through _that_ conversation before he can get to the-

“Okay,” Amy says, from right next to him, “have I upset you?”

James startles a little, shakes his head.

“No,” he says. 

Although she’s probably got ample reason to think he has, shit. He’s thought about her the past couple weeks, of course he has, but he still grabs her a coffee and she still grabs him a candy bar so like, okay, he hasn’t had time for lunch with her lately, what with going upstairs to Steve’s, but they work together. She’s been right there this whole time.

“Okay so I was gonna let this go but half the time you look like shit and we haven’t been for lunchshakes for like three weeks, so you wanna tell me what the fuck I did?”

James turns his head very slowly, mouth open because he can’t help it, and stares at her. His whole face feels like it won’t move, and hers looks like someone’s just called her something terrible in front of someone she can’t swear when near.

“Huh?” he says eventually.

“Either I did something or something’s wrong, and if something was wrong, you’d tell me. So what’d I do?”

James’ heart is going too fast and his lungs are going too slow and he’s, okay he’s panicking. And what he should do, as an intelligent young man with plenty of social experience, is ask her for a second to collect his thoughts, or perhaps allay her fears by immediately explaining it’s not her. He ought to be able to make up a story or find some excuse but he’s tired, and he has a lot on his mind. So he says,

“Family member,” like some kind of badly-put-together robo-dictionary with malfunctioning code. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut to try and locate the words he wants and then tries again. “I got a,” he says, “sick, my…” fuck, who can he sacrifice to the hands of fate, she knows too much about his family for him to make someone up or pick an already-dead person, God, he _hates_ tempting fate. “Okay, not family but like, a family frie- they’re sick, they got sick a couple weeks ago. That’s where I was when I was sick, I wasn’t sick - I had to go take care of them.”

Amy doesn’t look convinced. He can’t blame her.

“What’s their name?” she says and oh _fuck_.

He can’t think of one.

“Gordon,” he says, what the fuck.

She just looks at him.

“Are you in trouble, or are you avoiding me?” she says eventually.

“N-” he says, shakes his head. “No really, there’s someone sick. I promise, it’s a person who is not healthy, someone I know got hurt and-”

“You never leave the building,” she says. “When you leave, you go out but then the exit’s that way,” she points, “and you go that way. So what are you doing, getting coffee and then army-crawling to the exit so nobody sees you?”

James frowns, feels his eyebrows draw together and then, in a last ditch attempt by his brain to try and save him from himself, he says,

“I’m not allowed to tell you.”

And the silence rings in his ears. She looks taken aback, then hurt, then disappointed.

“Are you serious? ‘Cause like anywhere else I’d say you’re lying.”

“Yeah,” James says. “I’m serious, I promise. I’m not allowed.”

If anything, she looks _more_ upset.

“You got a secret project?” she says. 

James winces.

“I,” he says, and he really _really_ doesn’t want to lie to her but… “Not exactly?” he says. “They didn’t pick me over you, if that’s what you mean. This is something else but I-I’m not allowed to tell you. Yet.”

She looks him over, her expression pinched. 

“Yet,” she says. “If they didn’t pick you over me, why’d they pick you at all?” 

He shakes his head.

“I’m not allowed to tell you that, either,” he says. “But it’s yet. Okay? It’s not forever. I’ll be allowed to start telling some people soon.” And it’s a cop-out, cowardice - an easy excuse that’s an old cliché of a boring lie, that only works because of who they are and where they work. James feels like an absolute piece of shit. “I’m sorry,” he says.

She _still_ doesn’t look convinced. Then she shrugs.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, and it’s cold, her voice is low and sad. “Congratulations.”

“No,” he says, reaches out to try and grab her arm, “Ames-” 

James’ proximity alert starts beeping and he swears, rolls back and locks his screen, _fuck_ -

“Amy, come on, its me,” he says. “It’s not about lyin’, I just forget. I can’t even remember to fuckin’ text you, you know that. But this, I’m not allowed to tell you yet-” that, at least, is the truth “-nobody picked me over you, I ain’t gettin’ any extra credit or special projects but I ca- I want- Amy, I _can’t_ tell you.” And then, because it’s also true, “I could lose everything.”

She narrows her eyes, searches his face. 

“I better be the first person you fuckin’ tell,” she says.

“I swear, you’ll be first of my coworkers to hear it, first of my friends to hear it. You first, I promise.”

She looks back at her screen, glances at him one more time, and then goes back to what she was doing.

“I only halfway believe you,” she says. “I’m not dickin’ around - you fuck me over and I’m never speaking to you again.”

James reaches out again, puts his hand over hers on the desk this time, and she startles and looks at him.

“I promise,” he says. “Wanna milkshake?”

She narrows her eyes at him for a moment, tilts her head back and regards him. 

“Cotton Candy flavor, _with all_ the trimmings.”

James smiles, squeezes her hand.

“Cover for me, I’ll go get it now,” he says. 

She narrows her eyes again, but he can see she’s relaxed a little, see that she means it less this time.

 _“Nǐ zuì hǎo,”_ she says, _'You’d better,_ and James nods.

 _"Wǒ chéngnuò,”_ he answers, _'I promise.’_

And that’s yet another reason he knows she’s probably just about the best friend he has - he doesn’t have to tell her that he means more than just the milkshake.


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha knocks on Steve’s door at three fifty-five, which is not an accident - he told her four, and she doesn’t like being told what to do - and Steve gets to his feet and takes his time walking lop-sidedly to the door to answer it, because neither does he. 

“Hello, soldier,” she says, giving him the once-over because his shirt is open and his jeans are low and there’s coarse hair on his skin that she doesn’t usually get to see. 

“The Blank Window,” he says. “What a nice surprise.”

She sticks her tongue out and breezes past him in a waft of perfume she must have worn specifically because she knows he’ll smell it - she doesn’t wear perfume otherwise. 

“So your little toyboy decided to tattle-”

“Cut the bullshit, Nat, ‘n’sit down,” he says, closing the door behind her, heaving his body around. “You want a coffee? I’m in no mood for…messin’ around but I can be hospitable.”

She doesn’t sit, presumably because he’s asked. Instead, she leans seductively against the breakfast island.

“I love the new look,” she says. “It’s about time you showed some ski-”

“Nat, you…yelled at my boyfriend,” he says. “Let’s skip the shit. I get that you…didn’t know who he was but come on. You know better than that, what the hell?”

Her smile vanishes like it was never there at all.

 _“Ty slishkom volnuyesh'sya, printsessa,”_ she says dismissively, and turns to go and saunter through the kitchen or something, whatever, he’s seen all of this before.

 _“«Natashenka, I’m tired,»”_ he says, in Russian too, and _that_ gets her attention. “You can playact all you want, walk around and…” he winces, leans on the nearest couch, “flirt with me for the next hour, I don’t care. But trying to piss me off right now is a stretch, even for you - you know I haven’t got the energy. You know you’re in the wrong. And you know I know you better.”

She turns around the folds her arms.

“Then go ahead,” she says. “Your little boy comes crying and you-”

“What, are you jealous?” Steve asks - sarcastically, because he knows the answer is no. “Here all this time I thought he…gave you a surprise but maybe…you’re just so in love with me-”

 _“«Ugh, fuck off,»”_ she says, and he shrugs, holds his hands out.

“No, how about you fuck off, huh?” and then he puts his hand over his stomach, ignores the ache and burn. “Three-” he has to swallow hard and start again “-three weeks and you don’t even text me to see how I am?” 

Her eyes widen a little, then narrow. 

“You had your hot young thing-“

“Like that’d stop you any other time,” he says, and then he leans on the nearest piece of furniture. 

“If you and your boy-”

“You gotta stop callin’ him a boy, Nat,” Steve says.

“Why, does it make you uncomfortable?” she answers, and he shakes his head. 

Tired is an understatement, and he can’t even get mad. He’s upset by it, sure but angry? It’s just a bore at this point - she’s done this before, he knows what this is.

“It’s inaccurate,” he says, “he’s twenty-one. Does his age make _you_ uncomfortable?”

She scoffs.

“Look,” Steve says. “You didn’t know who he was and you got mad, and then…you did know who he was but it was too late. Right? You already yelled, and…he didn’t back down, so neither would you.” She shrugs, nonchalant. It’s strangely stubborn-teenager of her and Steve sighs. “And then you spend three weeks thinkin’ I’m gonna start pickin’ sides. You don’t get to be mad at me, ‘Shenka, you’re…the one who fell out with everyone.”

“Only you would abbreviate like an American a name that’s already been elaborated on by the Russians.”

Steve doesn’t smile. 

“What I said. That’s fair?” he says.

She clenches her jaw. Raises an eyebrow.

“That’s fair,” she says, imitating his intonation as closely as possible, which she’s annoyingly good at - but then that’s why she does it. 

He straightens his shoulders a little.

“You yelled and then you didn’t back down, that fair?” and, this time, he imitates his original intonation too.

“That’s fair,” she says, just the same as before. 

“You were worried about Clint, I get it. You might even have been worried about me-” she rolls her eyes, and that’s how he knows that she was “-but Nat, that was _my boyfriend, James._ Please don’t yell at the…people I care about, especially when they’re…dealing with some really tough shit, Nat, he thought I was gonna _die_. Now, I told him the same thing I’m’a tell you, I won’t be made to choose. I wouldn’t do that to anyone and I expect the same courtesy of my friends. Yeah?”

Natasha’s mouth twists. 

“That’s fair,” she says, in her own way this time, a concession. 

“You’re complicated, ‘cause that’s what you like. I only know what you’re thinkin’ ‘cause you _let_ me know, I accepted that a long time ago. So I think it’s reasonable to ask that you, one of the most…important people in my life, try your best to get on with one of the _other_ most important people in my life. Don’t you think?”

“I’ll have tea,” she says, “black,” which is her way of agreeing. 

It’s still annoying but at least he knows he has her back onside - he has in the cupboard some dainty, gilded, patterned teacups, saucers and dessert plates enough for four people, specifically because she has tea so often. She knows where they are, she’ll fetch them when she wants to start brewing. Still though, it’s not actually an answer. 

“Nat, don’t…yell at the people I care about. Regardless of whether you invited them to the party or not, okay?” he says instead.

“Yes, Commander,” she says, holds herself up on her toes like one of the USO girls - ass back, tits out, head up with a sharp salute. But it’s a yes.

“And I’d like you to stay for dinner.”

She relaxes again.

“And how will James feel about that?” she smirks.

“I have spoken to James about it,” he says. “And providing you’re willing to apologize to him-”

 _“«Apologise!?»”_

“Yeah!” Steve says. “ ’Cause you were awful to him, _and_ you know it.” Okay, maybe he does have the energy to get mad after all. “So you can keep pretending you didn’t do anything wrong, or you can…do the right thing by him _and_ me, and start over with him. I care about the both of you, can you at least fucking try to get along with him? For a friend?”

She looks unhappy but she also looks like he’s caught her out. As much as she ever does, anyway.

“I’ll apologize to your -”

“James,” Steve says. “His name is James.”

She sucks her teeth a second. 

“I’ll apologize to James.”

“Good,” he says. 

And he determines that he won’t be cold with her after that, not really, but that he doesn’t want to play today. He isn’t going to have a go at her or put her down - she does that to him some days, and it sucks - but he does correct her once or twice when she calls James other things beside his name. She’s doing it as a test, to see if she can get away with it, and he loves her to pieces, he really does, but she can be exhausting. He’s got to think six steps ahead just to be one step behind when it comes to her, and he knows he’s only capable because she sticks to her usual personality. At that she only sticks to it out of courtesy. 

They’re friends, they really are, and she - and Clint - mean so much to him but she’s such a layered person, with such layered reasons for saying or doing anything, that it makes his head spin. 

Like the dumb ‘Yes, Commander’ shtick. She does it because it’s obnoxious, to see if he’ll rise to it, to see if he’s as tired as he says he is, to see if she can get away with goading him, to find out whether she can talk her way out of a problem or whether she’s got to apologize. He doesn’t flirt, because she acts flirty, because she knows he knows it’s an act, because she’s trying to get him to say so so she can change her behavior so she can look like she’s agreeing and…

“I’m getting a headache,” he says. “Ugh, and a stomachache.”

She stops smirking, looks older and younger somehow all at once.

 _“«Sit down and sit still, I’ll get you a glass of water,»”_ she says and goes to fetch one, and at least she’ll probably be civil, she’ll probably do as he asks - she’s dropped the act, again out of courtesy.

“Thank you,” he says when she hands the glass to him, genuine in his gratitude because he knows there was a time in her life when nothing was genuine.

She rolls her eyes, pretending she doesn’t care. She knows he knows. That’s the whole point. And no doubt she’ll put the act back on for James, but Steve isn’t going anywhere, he can umpire. 

“I’ll make my tea,” she says. “Would you like one? Mine will be black, with jam in.”

“Isn’t that how Bob Marley likes his tea?”

She turns around and looks at him archly. 

_“Wi’ jammin’?”_ he tries.

“Your integration into pop culture’s even worse than mine.”

“Blame Sam,” Steve says, and she tuts.

“No,” she answers. “And you’re not getting any tea.”

“It’s my goddamn house,” he rasps, barely any voice at all, but he’s smiling when he says it.

As for the rasp, that’s what the tea is for.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he almost has to lie down on the couch entirely to get it out of his back pocket, given that he can’t hold himself up where he sits. When he sees the message, he smiles.

****

James comes in at about five-twenty. Steve doesn’t doubt he was putting off coming back up - James has had to deal with Natasha before and doesn’t want to deal with it again. He doesn’t knock, because he doesn’t have to, but he does come in and immediately looks at Natasha where she’s sitting on the couch.

“Hi, honey,” Steve says, hopes it doesn’t sound as tired as he feels.

“Hi,” James says, and then, “Ma’am,” about as coldly as Steve’s ever heard him say anything.

“James,” Steve says, “this is…Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow.”

Natasha rises gracefully from her seat and turns to face James, and Steve does what he can to make sure he can see both of them at once. It’s not very effective given that he’s sitting on the other couch, but he really doesn’t have the strength to get up and hold them both back from each other. 

“James,” she says. “Steve has been speaking to me about the way I spoke to you a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah,” James says, warily, “he’s been talkin’ to me about it too. Says I ought’a try and get along with you ‘cause we’re both important to ‘im.” 

She nods carefully.

“I apologize for the way I spoke to you.”

“You mean the way you spoke past me,” James says. “Which I accept even though it was a dick move. I’m sorry I freaked out about Steve, just talk in English next time.”

Steve sees her opinion change, sees the minute turn of her head, and the different light in her eyes when she glances back at him.

“Or Mandarin?” she says, and _James_ scoffs at _her_ this time - Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone scoff at the Black Widow. 

“I mean, I’m speaking English now, right? So you definitely heard me say ‘just talk in English’ just then?” 

“Jamie,”Steve says.

“Jamie?” James says, eyes going wide as he looks at Steve and, okay, Steve’s never said it before and probably won’t ever again.

Been a long time since he’s heard it, too.

“Hadda get your attention somehow, sweetheart,” he says. “Come on. Play nice.”

James thinks about it - visibly considers it. Then he takes two steps forward and sticks out a hand.

“James Barnes,” he says. “I believe I gave you my credentials.”

Natasha takes his hand after a long moment.

“Natalia Romanova,” she says. “Natasha to my friends.”

James nods.

“Natalia,” he says.

“James,” Steve warns.

 _“«Oh, I like him»”_ she says.

“Na _tasha_ ,” Steve warns again. “Christ, the two of you are like goddamned children, all over a bad first impression under a difficult circumstance. You’re _both_ older and better than that. Now, this is _my_ home so be _civil_ in it. Nat, I believe my partner asked you twice to speak in English,” he says. “ James, she informed me she likes you, don’t be cold to my best friend on purpose. Now are we going to talk about what you…idiots would like to eat for dinner or shall we all speak a different language until we can find one we agree on?”

James gives Natasha another look.

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, not smiling yet, and she smirks.

It’s as close to a laugh as she ever gets.

~

Steve doesn’t often put jam in his tea - it’s a lighter, sharper kind of sweetness, and he prefers the mellow of a teaspoon of honey if he’s going to sweeten his tea at all - but he decided to today. Of course, he decided on milk, too, which is abhorrent in her eyes, he’s sure but, right now he really couldn’t care less. She hands him a teaspoon and he doesn’t stir his tea properly - his sweet-tooth likes the mouthful of jam at the end, sue him.

From the look on her face, she must ‘know,’ but then that’s always been part of the clever way she extracts information - if you pretend you know already, people assume it’s true, and then they confirm what you suspect without realizing they’ve been given just enough rope. Steve frowns, looks at her with as much of a question in his eyes as he can muster, and says,

“What?” and she gives him a mysterious smile ‘cause he hasn’t proved anything, so she doesn’t know for sure.

Sometimes? She’s _exhausting._

“I’m going to order chicken stay,” James says as she hands him his coffee. “Is Thai good for you?”

“Perhaps I’d prefer borscht,” she says, and James rolls his eyes. 

Steve narrowly avoids it too.

“Hin thet case comred,” he says, in his worst Russian accent, rolling his r’s atrociously after an ‘h so hard it’s almost a ‘c,’ “hyou poor the wodka and I’ll make the phonecall. The Red Soup flies at midnight, tell no-one.”

She stares at him, unmoving, for maybe three seconds. 

“Thai’s fine,” she says. “I’ll have the gaeng daeng and khao pad, with som tam and a bottle of their aloe vera whatever.”

For a second, Steve thinks she’s trying to get one over on James again.

“Great,” James says. “You get that, Jay?”

 _”Indeed I did, Sir,”_ Jarvis answers, and Steve schools his face as best he can and then orders too. 

“May I have double chicken satay with peanut sauce, extra sauce, peanut noodles, and a side of sticky rice dumplings? As well as fried broccoli if they do it, and— James, we have cream and sesame oil, right?”

“Yep.”

“Some of the Mangodi, a bottle of their aloe vera whatever, and some coconut ice-cream.”

 _“Of course, Commander,”_ Jarvis says.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“Just chicken satay and peanut sauce for me, please,” James says. “With some rice. Steve, can I try one of your-”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Anything, yep, sure, whatever you want, sweetheart, when’s it gettin’ here, Jarvis?”

~

Steve orders on the proviso that he drench at least one of his chicken-satay-with -noodles in double cream, and his mangodi in sesame oil, to up the calories and help his digestive system. He also orders donuts.

“Are you sure you’re allowed all this?” James says, and Steve pushes himself to his feet with a groan, tugs his phone from his back pocket.

“Notification while you were bacon-bringin’, sweetheart,” he says, grinning wide but he can’t help it.

It’s a conversation he and Gari were having about how Steve did with the meatballs, how Steve was feeling this morning and, aside from Steve’s _‘THANKS :)’_ at the end of the thread, it concludes, 

_‘As you have suffered no ill effects from the meal last night, you may resume your normal eating habits as long as they are supplemented with fatty foods and plenty of liquids for the next week, and on the understanding that you finish your course of nutrients.’_

James reads for himself the short text message.

“Nice,” he says.

James still insists he get fruit juice online grocery shopping, though, to drink a fuck ton with his donuts. Steve draws the line at prune.

“I’ll take apple,” he says. “We can heat it up and put cinnamon and clove and nutmeg…in but-” okay, he still can’t get a full lungful in, man, healing sucks “-I’m French-Toasting one of those fuckin’ donuts when they get here.”

“Jesus,” James chuckles.

“Ugh, count me in, you bastard,” Natasha says. “And you’d better pray I fit into my catsuit after.”

“Make any more assertions about my mother,” Steve answers, “and I’ll eat yours in front of you.”

She gives him that smile again.

***

The donuts arrive first, and Steve French-Toasts one immediately. He grabs it, half whisks an egg - he’s visibly pissed when he has to ask Natasha for help - and then dips it and dumps a shit-ton of cinnamon on it.

It’s a fucking Krispy Kreme Apple Pie donut, for God’s sake, yeah, James is having at _least_ one of those monstrosities later.

When Steve’s finished frying it, in fucking _butter_ \- and James _sees him sneak a spoonful of butter while it’s frying, Jesus_ \- he sprinkles it in sugar and smothers it in in-

“Is that caramel coffee syrup?” James says, aghast, and Steve shrugs.

“It’s _syrup_. I’m pouring it on this so, right now, it’s French-Toast-Donut syrup,” he says. “Anyone else?”

“God, no,” Natasha mutters. “I feel ill already.”

“If you’re sick, I call your curry,” he says, digging in, “ha, oh, f- hoo,” yeah, the apple filling is hot, genius, you just fried it in butter.

And James can’t decide what it is he’s feeling. He thinks it’s halfway between being horrified and being truly, madly, deeply in love with a dude who’s able to mainline fast food like it’s air. 

“I,” he says. “Honestly, this is…I love you a lot.”

Steve looks at him, grins, and then double-takes at the door when it goes.

James gets up to answer it, and find one of the tower security, Dana, standing there with three liters of apple juice. And one of prune.

“Traitor!” Steve says when he sees, but his mouth is full and he doesn’t look too mad. 

Eddie is directly behind Dana with the Thai takeout, and Natasha comes over to help him take it in.

“Donuts!” Steve says through his mouthful, and James nods, goes and grabs them from the table. 

Eddie and Dana take one each with a smile, and they depart. When James turns around, Steve’s cramming the last of his donut in his mouth, while already transporting the first of his mangodi from it’s little package to join its toasted predecessor.

“Slow down, you’ll pop your stitches,” James says.

“I don’t have any stitches,” Steve says, without even looking up, and then he doesn’t say a whole lot else for quite a while.

~

As promised, when they’ve all eaten a sufficient amount (himself and Natasha) or somehow finished their entire banquet (Steve), Natasha whisks some more eggs, and then James serves the ice-cream while Steve fries their donuts of choice - another apple-pie for him and James, and a Strawberries and ‘Kreme’ for Natasha. He dusts hers with cocoa instead of cinnamon and they all have hot spiced apple juice because why the fuck not?

“I get the feelin’ I’m the one gonna be bedridden,” James says afterwards.

Steve chuckles, low and soft and, when James looks over at him, he’s sprawled in the recliner, eyes half-closed, half a smile on his lips, injured arm resting against the chair, the hand of his good arm resting across his stomach. James can’t see any distenstion under the fuzz, but Steve looks like a man who’s had a damn good meal and enjoyed every mouthful.

“Don’t think I’ll need those nutes tonight, huh?”

“Not sure you could squeeze one in,” Natasha says, and he hums a laugh through his nose.

“I’m not sure I’ll…even make it to bed,” he says. 

And then, somehow, as though she hasn’t just eaten a full meal, a fried donut, and ice-cream along with spiced apple juice after a couple of Russian teas, Natasha stands, catlike, and walks to Steve. 

She leans down and brushes a kiss over his cheek. She bends at the waist to do it, breasts right there in front of his face. Steve shuts his eyes as soon as she starts to lean down, and raises an eyebrow at James once she’s making her way to the door like,

_Can you believe this broad?_

“Are you going to come see me out, _Ditya?”_ she says.

James looks at her.

“Sure,” he says, following her. “Don’t call me that.”

She looks at him, apparently surprised. 

“Ah, so you _do_ speak Russian.”

“I _don’t_ speak Russian,” James says. “But thanks for the confirmation.”

Holy shit, did he just pull one over on the Black Widow?

“Are we gonna have a problem?” Steve says, and his voice is slurring - yeah, he’ll be asleep any minute now.

Natasha Romanov opens the front door and smirks at James in a way that suggests she knows what James is thinking. She probably doesn’t, or she wouldn’t be smirking.

“See you two later, I’m sure,” she says, and then she walks to the elevator.

James very carefully waits until the elevator doors have closed after her before he shuts the front door, as much as he wants to close it before the elevator’s even arrived. He can be polite, even when he doesn’t want to.

He turns back to look at Steve, and Steve is staring at him.

“I won’t pretend that that went as well as it could have,” he says, “but I’ll take not-as-bad-as-it-might-have-been, and she gets better the longer she knows you. You did good, kiddo, c’mere.”

He sorts out the recliner so that he’s sitting vaguely upright again. He gets up and, although James hovers just in case, manages fine by himself.

He does look good in an open shirt. Then again, he looks good in a closed one, and without one, so it stands to reason. 

He lifts and arm gestures James closer. It’s not late, but today was difficult for James and probably exhausting for Steve, and he’d much rather lie down in a bed with Steve than pretend they’re going to get anything else done.

James gets under Steve’s arm, one arm around Steve’s waist, other hand up against Steve’s chest - he’s on Steve’s left hand side, so he’s well away from the chest wound - and then they set off for the bedroom. Steve unsuccessfully tries to stifle a yawn with the back of his hand, making James yawn too.

“Ha, sorry, kid,” he says, but James rolls his eyes.

“No you’re not,” he says, but that’s just fine.

He’s ready for bed anyhow.

**Author's Note:**

> I base of lot of Steve’s nutrition ideas on the diet of athletes/body builders, but the Steve-scoffing-a-plate-of-burgers thing is based on something that actually happened to polar explorers. Their rations had been miscalculated and they finally returned from their trip not having had enough fat or sodium for weeks on end. Apparently, the first thing they asked for was a pound of butter each, which they proceeded chow down on like it was a block of cheese. 
> 
> As I’m sure most people in fandom know by now, Russians elongate names to indicate familiarity, rather than abbreviating them. So where Steve calls Natalia ‘Nat’ as an American abbreviation, the Russian ‘nickname’ is Natasha. A further Russian elaboration would be Natashenka, another extension of a name already extended. Natalia -> Natasha -> Natashenka. Which Steve then abbreviates to ‘Shenka, because he and Nat are very good friends and sometimes he’s a doof on purpose.
> 
> Edit: Secretlytodream says the following regarding Russian nicknames (It's also down there in the comments, but this is just in case you don't get that far):  
>  _We do elongate the names to show familiarity but it’s also more of a pet name, or a child name. Obviously speaking about adults it would show affection, love, sometimes sarcasm, all depending on the context. We do shorten the names actually (but depending on the name sometimes technically it isn’t much shorter, but we do love our “sh” suffix lol), but again - it depends on the people and names, like, it can be different for different people with the same name. Sometimes Natalia becomes Tasha, more seldom Nat, and Natasha is like middle ground for friends or colleagues (like in a work situation) that doesn’t have to do with anything super official. Another example - Angelina become Lina (sometimes Gela) etc. but again, my five cents in case this is even remotely interesting to someone :’)_


End file.
